


Here

by l_am_adlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adlock, Based on the TSOT Draft Script, F/M, Rewrite, The Sign of Three, my personal headcanon, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-12-31 22:37:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12142617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_am_adlocked/pseuds/l_am_adlocked
Summary: Despite going through the reality that he will be abandoned by his now married best friends, Sherlock tries his best to deliver his best man speech and yet a distraction in the sea of strangers get him to revert to the memories he had always tried to forget—memories of her.PROMPTS: Irene crashing in the wedding; Events in Karachi; Sherlock meeting Irene in his time away; & MORE.





	1. The Speech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE BOLDED PARTS COME DIRECTLY FROM THE "SIGN OF THREE DRAFT SCRIPT"

As Sherlock sits beside his friends, he sees the mass of around eighty people whose glasses are now being filled with champagne by the waiters. Sherlock masks his own undiscovered emotions by doing what he does best—observing. Yet, before he actually starts deducing, it starts.

** Bing bing bing. **

The sound of spoon hitting the wine glass will never cease to haunt him—his turn to talk. As a man of words, Sherlock absolutely loves hearing his own voice since it's the most sensical one around an area... 

...but right now? Exposing himself in front of these strangers as he watches his two best friends leave him to be happy? He doesn't know... especially since he swallows it down and ignores it.

**"Pray silence for the Best Man,"** the toast master announces as a wave of applause follows it from the strange audience.  


From the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees  **John clutch Mary's hand—partly in anticipation, partly for comfort—** Sherlock doesn't really know himself since he doesn't know exactly what his speech is about to convey.

Clearing his throat as he stands up, buttoning up his jacket as his own symbol of armour, keeping parts of himself hidden from this sea of eyes observing  _him_ for a change, he starts.

** "Ladies and gentlemen. Family. Friends. Um... Also..." **

At this exact moment, Sherlock's mind turns into hyper drive as the mass of people begins sprouting information he had observed and is now being deduced.

First and foremost, deducing whether they are here for John or Mary, and then anything else he finds worth noting: 

> ** JOHN: AUNT (NOT POPULAR) **
> 
> ** MARY: LINE MANAGER **
> 
> ** JOHN: FIRST SNOG **
> 
> ** MUTUAL: FRIEND FROM BALLROOM **

He blinks once from the overwhelming amount of information—eighty and more of them—and tries his best to continue, whilst John and Mary both ready themselves from the oncoming storm brewing from the mouth of one Sherlock Holmes.

** "Colleagues. Schoolmates. Couple of exes..." **

His eyes glide over to a woman in the yellow hat. 

** "You in the yellow. Are you in the right wedding?" **

She flushes in embarrassment and clutches the hand of the man sitting next to her.

_ Ahhh, a plus one, I should have known that, idiot, _ he thinks to himself, shaking his head.

He clears his throat once more to settle the discomfort everyone is receiving from his own body language.

**"Some of you have come a very long way to be with us today."**  


Immediately, his mind snaps up the information of where each and every one of the guests had come from...

_...Alicante... _

He sees the information "Alicante" in his brain from one of the guests. He blinks profusely to remove the visuals he had made, removing everything else to focus on that one word—on the person with  _that_ information.

Alicante.

As the words in his head settle down, except for that one location, he looks down from the "Alicante" hovering on one person and to the face of the owner of that information.

** A tanned woman. The word "ALICANTE" above her. **

A  _fake_ tanned woman, in fact.

He curses to himself as words left his mouth at the sight of her—especially when her small smirk grows into a predatory grin.

_ What are you doing here? _  he wanted to demand. 

Unfortunately, demanding in public with all eyes on him would gain more questions, especially if he starts acting like a detective instead of the awkward best man character he had not realised he had invented for himself.

He observes her. Like all those years ago—three, in fact—she never fails to baffle him with the lack of information except the fact that she had just come from Alicante.

Her clothes are definitely not from her, now that he thinks about it. They are too casual—too normal— _borrowed_. It is nothing at all a disguise that shows a self-portrait of her own character... or perhaps it is?

By borrowing clothes from another, does that show that she is able to grow close with any other human being? That her adaptability as a woman shows how much she is able to adjust to any kind of situation? That the fact that she had showed up here at all shows her boldness and willingness to be risky and to display her capabilities?

Or maybe he's just over-thinking when it comes to her. She never fails to make him question his own abilities.

She raises a brow at him, bringing him back to real-time and making him realise that he had been standing there for a few seconds longer than necessary, gawking at her.

"Sherlock?" John whispers beside him.

He clears his throat, looking at the tanned woman in the eyes—eyes that should be blue but are instead brown.

**"Sorry about your luggage. Glad you managed to borrow something,"**  he tells her. 

He pauses as she raises a brow in challenge. He decides to go for the kill.  


** "Your bag is in Karachi. Terminal two. First carousel." **

** The "tanned woman" looks daggers. **

* * *

KARACHI TERMINAL TWO  
FIRST CAROUSEL  
about three years ago

"I'm tired," she finally whispers. His eyes briefly gaze at her, standing tall beside him despite her state, before he looks back at the baggage carousel.

She's already clothed in something a bit more casual—some tracksuit bottoms and one of his jumpers (which looks baggy on her)—whilst he is wearing one of his own tracksuit bottoms, a polo shirt, and a rather baggy kagoul jacket [1].

At this time of the night (or morning, rather) there is only about twenty people around the airport.

They had already been through two plane trips—the first one heading to India, and the second one coming back to Karachi. None would expect them to come back so they'd be trying to search for flights from India to another location  _except_ Karachi.

It explains why she's tired despite them having about two to three-hour breaks before both flights for her to rest, eat, and change clothes. 

The fact that she had told him that she's tired at all is very telling.

"We have to be quick," he finally replies, hoping it doesn't sound as apologetic as he feels.

"I know," she answers.

And he knows she knows he's apologetic, that they _have_ to do this, that he wants her to be okay but he has to prioritise her safety rather than her comfort.

She  _always_ knows and she  _always_ understands.

How on Earth she puts up with him will be a mystery to him.

"We'll get you into a hospital when we arrive," he tells her, noting her shivering form and removing his kagoul jacket as an offering.

She sighs and takes it from him—briefly making him remember the time he offered her his coat on the day they met.

"No," she whispers as she cocoons herself.

"You just said you're tired."

"Doesn't mean I need to be sent to a hospital, Mister Holmes," she replies.

He sighs. One doesn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to know she's feeling worse than how she wants him to think. She's skinnier than he'd expected, paler then he'd imagined, and physically weaker than he'd hope...

...but her eyes show more strength and determination than he'd ever seen on her.

"Which country?" she asks, shifting uncomfortably as she tries to stand up straight.

He wants to tell her to sit somewhere, that he could wait for their bags alone—but he doesn't. It's not safe for them to separate. This way, he could keep an eye on her, and she could keep an eye on him.

The things the  _John-in-his-head_ is telling him are idiotic reasons on why he doesn't want her to leave his side.

He pushes down the urge to help her stand—a simple hand on her back, reaching for her hand to place on his arm, looping their arms together,  _SOMETHING_. But he knows it won't be welcomed.

He'll wait for her to ask for help. But he also knows she won't ask for it because she's as stubborn as he is.

Taking a deep breath, he places a tentative hand around her shoulders, resting it on the arm away from him, pulling her closer so she'd be able to lean on his body for support.

His jaw clenches at the reminder when he feels her flinch at the contact: She's been tortured. He knows that much. She's good at hiding how long, how frequent, and how severe, however.

He regrets killing the terrorist cell: too quick, too merciful. It would have been more satisfying if he was able to torture them as much as they did to her.

He blinks at the idea. When did he become so angry in behalf of another? He doesn't _care_.

Yet, when he doesn't feel her move away, when she doesn't comment on the gesture, and when she seems to accept his help and lean on him, feeling her body resting on his, he can't help but sigh in relief that she is willing to trust him.

"Switzerland," [2] he finally replies to her question.

"Oh?" she asks.

"Quiet, calm, peaceful," he replies because he knows she's asking why, "less trouble, high standard of living, near France and Italy... safe."

"Good," she comments, sighing.

He notices that he is holding more of her weight as she leans on him more.

"You sure you're okay?" he finally asks, turning his head to look at her completely.

Irene looks up at him, a bit of surprise on her face. She wasn't expecting such a blunt question, or such an exposing one from him.

Her eyes softening, she replies, "I'll be fine."

"Right now?" he asks.

"We have to be quick," she answers, repeating what he told her moments before.

And she knows he knows that she's trying to tell him that she is strong, that she can do this, that they have work to do and she is not letting her sorry state stop them from doing what they need to do.

"I know," he replies.

And she knows that he knows.

He always _knows_ and he _always_  understands.

How on Earth he sees her for who she really is, she will never know.

They stare at each other for a long time before he looks away first since their bags had just arrived.

And she hates the fact that their little moment of vulnerability is the beginning of something far greater.

* * *

GOLDNEY HALL ORANGERY  
BRISTOL UNIVERSITY  
at the present moment

Sherlock licks his lips when it had dried from the memory, trying not to stare at the "tanned" woman. Irene, on the other hand, hates being reminded of the beginning of their long-term torture.

Just as the information popped up once more on whose side she's on: John's or Mary's, it pops out:

> SHERLOCK: "THE" WOMAN

He takes a deep breath to remove his thoughts and go back to saying his speech.

**"John Watson is my friend... He's been my flatmate, my confidante, my colleague and—on more than one occasion—my saviour. I owe him a great deal."**

He takes a deep breath.

**"Wrong. I owe him _everything_. I wouldn't be standing here without his intervention. He has rescued me—time and again. Sometimes from mortal danger. Often from  _myself_."**

He tries not to notice that the "tanned" woman had tilted her head at the last part.

**"I don't have many people I call 'friend'. It's not a word that comes easily to my  lips. John is the very best of them."**

He notices that  **John is clearly moved as Mary strokes his back.**

 **"Most people actually thought we were gay,"** he says.

His eyes seek hers and unlike the others who are feeling embarrassed for him, her eyes twinkle in amusement.

**"We weren't... Aren't... Never were... Probably this is the moment to make that clear... It's an obvious error. I'm very blokey and John's quite gentle."**

He sees her successfully suppress her laughter.

 **John**   **tries to make light of it. "No. They thought _I_ was the blokey one."**

**"I'm more assertive," Sherlock replies.**

**"Yeah, but I was in the army. I ate bugs."**

**"Boys. Moving on, yeah?" Mary mutters.**

**"We've been through a lot together as flatmates. Bad plumbing; rewiring; kidnapped by a Chinese Drug Cartel. But I'd like to begin by saying what an honour it is that with so many friends... he picked _me_ to be the best man. Instead of any of you. Bad luck. You all came second."**

John tries not to face palm at the last part.

**"This wedding wasn't a total shock to me. John and I had discussed the subject of marriage many times."**

At that, his body betrays him by gliding over to  _her_ for a brief moment. He sees her eyes widen in surprise before he looks away, flustered at having been caught, and so he makes a joke to distract everyone before he exposes himself.

**"In the past I'd always told him I was flattered. I knew we'd become close. But I felt that marriage was a step too far for us."**

And everyone laughs... except her.

He sighs.

**"When he told me it was Mary he was marrying—I knew that they were destined to be together forever. Every time he found himself chained up in a dungeon he instinctively thought of her."**

Knowing he'd fucked up anyway, he manages to let his eyes glide over hers, dead-in-the-eye, and she looks at him as intensely as he is.

**"The chains reminded him of their nights together."**

Her brow rises at that and he smirks despite himself, knowing that he is now talking about her—about  _them_ , and though it seems like he is losing, he isn't.

He's challenging her. He wants her to feel confused with this other way of attack—by actually _addressing_   _her_ instead of  _ignoring her_ as what he would have done in the past.

But not anymore. Not since he pretended to be dead.

* * *

SWITZERLAND  
ZÜRICH  
months after Karachi

Irene walks down the stairs, just managing to wrap the tie of the blue dressing gown—one of  _his_ dressing gowns—which she had worn after she heard  _the_ news.

It is two hours after midnight and she hadn't been sleeping when she heard a small crash on the floor below her bedroom. Quickly taking the gun which  _he_ had provided for her (how he smuggled it in the country, she'll never know now), she gasps as she opens the light.

"Oh God," she gasps at the sight of him, bloodied and bruised.

"I—I—I know that this is—er—I didn't expect that you'd be—"

"Kitchen, now," she orders him, running to the said room where her first aid kit is.

They spent hours in total silence. Sherlock watches as Irene doctors him as much as she is capable of.

He doesn't need to ask where she learned it—being a dominatrix probably got her to learn how to deal with accidental injuries as well as aftercare. She, in turn, doesn't need to ask what he'd been doing nor why he faked his death. It was always Moriarty. It's why he helped her faked her own death.

Now, they're both dead—both knowing the other isn't. She isn't THE dominatrix anymore and he isn't THE detective anymore.

They're equals.

"What's your name?" she asks quietly, breaking the silence as she grabs some water from her fridge whilst he stays seated by the table.

"Sigerson..." he whispers. Before she comments about the name, he continues, "Wolfe."

She freezes on her steps before continuing onwards, sitting in front of him.

"...Sigerson?" she asks him instead.

Sherlock smiles for a brief moment. "My father's name is Siger." [3]

"Sigerson," she whispers before chuckling, shaking her head at the reason for his name.

She tries not to think about how he had thought of _her_  name.

* * *

PLANE TO DUBAI  
coming from Karachi

Irene looks down at the name on her passport once more as they head towards Dubai in the United Arab Emirates on a plane.

"Gertrude Wolfe?" she asks him quietly since a child, as well as his mother who is sitting on his other side, is sleeping beside her.

She doesn't see his expression since they are both sitting beside the plane windows with Sherlock sitting in front of her to avoid suspicion, but she knows that he is slightly embarrassed with the question.

"Mata Hari," he whispers.

She nods to herself. Mata Hari, Dutch exotic dancer and successful courtesan as well as a double agent in the First World War, had the name Margaretha Geertruida MacLeod...

How very  _her_.

"Alright," she replies.

Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes as he looks out of the window, watching as the city grows smaller and smaller beneath them.

After a moment, he feels something on his armchair and looks down from the window to see a pair of feet—her feet—resting on top of his armrest. 

He turns on his seat to the other armrest to look at her in the eye and complain, but his words fall from his lips at the look of discomfort on her face.

She has her head leaned back on the seat, stretching her upper body as a hand holds on to the side of her ribs, her lips twitching in discomfort, whilst the other hand rubs one of her thighs as she stretches one of her legs in discomfort.

_Idiot_ , he thinks. They had just run from a terrorist cell. He gave her a few hours to rest and eat in the airport in India as well as changing her clothing before going back to Karachi and immediately leaving to Dubai.

_ She did just say she was tired, _ he thinks to himself.

Turning back to the lone foot settled on the armrest below the window, he takes a few moments of hesitation before finally deciding to rub her foot. He sighs when she flinches, the reminder of her torture coming back in his head.

He notices that it is calloused—barefoot in a terrorist cell does that as well as running away from said terrorist cell without any footwear.

He hears a sigh from behind his seat before another foot wedges itself on top of the foot he was massaging.

"Thank you," she whispers from behind.

He doesn't reply back.

* * *

SWITZERLAND  
ZÜRICH  
months after Karachi

"Thank you," he whispers when she hands him the glass of water.

"...Siblings?" she asks him quietly.

He immediately understands. "No," he simply answers.

She nods slowly once, twice. "Alright," she replies quietly.

They keep silent—the fact that they are now married via alias swimming in her head.

"I have to leave early," he suddenly says, clearing his throat.

"You still need to heal," she counters.

"...How long?" he asks in a whisper.

"A few days?"

"Alright."

They don't talk much the days after as Sherlock rested and healed. It gave her some time to ponder over the fact that he had chosen her as his safe haven—trusted her to keep his secret. Then again, he gave her a chance of a second life.

She knows he's going around the world destroying Moriarty's web. Perhaps he is even here to ask her on information about it. She  _was_ a giver of information in Moriarty's network itself.

It doesn't matter.

Because as quickly as he came back in her life, he was leaving it again.

"Mister Holmes," she says whilst Sherlock attempted to sneak out of her house in the middle of the night without a goodbye.

"Yes?" he asks.

He turns around and doesn't apologise because they both know why he's leaving without saying it: there is no guarantee whether he'd even be alive after his suicide mission... and saying goodbye is too formal—too  _finished_.

How can one say goodbye without even saying as much as a hello?

She walks over to stand in front of him, offering a brown envelope. "Here."

He looks down for a moment, putting his bag down to take it. "What is it?" he asks, his eyes focused on the envelope as to not look at her in the eye.

"Everything I remember about Moriarty's web."

He looks up at her at that.

"How did you—?"

"Why didn't you ask me in the first place?" she says.

Sherlock's jaw clenches and looks away. He doesn't want to tell her that he doesn't want to make her feel like he's using her—that he only came here for information... because that would expose him, because he denies it, because it's the  _truth_.

"Thank you," he replies before leaving.

She doesn't complain that he didn't even give her as much as a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Basically what Junkie!Sherlock was wearing.
> 
> [2] Reichenbach was in Switzerland. Also, my sister and I stayed at our aunt's house there and we found a house that says "HAUS ADLER" there. There was even a "House Restaurant Adler" there.
> 
> [3] A lot of people had theorised that Siger is the name of Sherlock's father because in "The Adventures of the Empty House", it was said that there was a Norwegian explorer named Sigerson, which Holmes used as an alias. Sigerson=son of Siger. Tada.


	2. The Threat

GOLDNEY HALL ORANGERY  
BRISTOL UNIVERSITY  
at the present moment

Sherlock blinks again, shaking away the memory of the first time he thought he'd be seeing the last of her after his supposed death.

As he comes back to reality, everyone is still laughing. It seems that no time had past since his last words.

His eyes quickly seek hers out and he knows that they're nothing at all like how her eyes had seemed on the day they first met.

Besides the fact that her usually electric and piercing blue eyes are currently brown due to contact lenses, the expression on her eyes seems...  _older_ , more tired, with pain being the only thing he can deduce from the heavy amount of emotions passing through her unreadable eyes. Not for the first time, with her, his mind can't keep up with how fast the puzzling information is oozing from her.

She swallows and her eye twitches, as if nervous from the way he is looking at her. He doesn't let go of her gaze and continues with his speech, changing it lightly from how he originally wrote it—making sure to emphasize his words by staring at her intently.

** "Mary is a wonderful woman," ** he starts, emphasizing  _wonderful woman_.

Her brow twitches in confusion as she tries to think about his words—not the kind of expression you would usually see on the face of one Irene Adler.

And at that point, he knew that she knows he is talking about _her_. 

At that, he finally looks away, looking down at his hands with a sigh. He doesn't care if people would think that he looks oddly grim or wistful as he says his words. He chuckles to himself at the possible rumour about him and Mary.

** "Intelligent, beautiful, talented, deeply caring," ** he describes with an odd tone even he could not recognise.

Did he just sound as if he was...  _longing_ for something?

Knowing that he had royally fucked-up by now and doesn't really know why he's still trying to redeem himself since all sense of his dignity against his vulnerability is gone— _damn his awkward-best-man mask_ , he looks at her intensely.

She's looking at him in a way  as if she can see his mind drifting back to the many times he had sought her out in his time away to heal, to find some sense of sanity—despite either of them being the least sane people he knows—and dare he says it: to find solace in  _her_.

Irene wonders what Sherlock is playing at. She understood that he would be vulnerable on this day—exposing himself to the public in front of his friends and the wave of strangers he had probably offended at some point in the day.

But she didn't expect that he would open himself up completely in public—more importantly,  _to her_ in  _public_.

Granted, no one really knows who she is and why she is here. No one knows that he is not talking about John and Mary Watson. No one knows that he is actually talking about Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. But the point is: he is telling her something; he is  _declaring_ something to her in front of all these people, and he doesn't care how much it exposes him...

And in turn, he doesn't know how much it affects  _her_.

* * *

MONTENEGRO  
BIJELO POLJE  
a few months ago

It had been five months since she last saw Sherlock at all—the longest time they hadn't seen each other since her second supposed death.

_ I'm nearly finished, _ he told her before he left. She never really knew what that meant and she still isn't sure whether she wanted to know.

She stayed in Switzerland for a year, living for herself and gaining as much as she could, before finally leaving the place to live in Montenegro.

To her surprise, he still found and sought her out when he is in dire need of help—occasionally asking her for help in some parts of the web she had written about on that brown envelope she had given him on his first _visit_.  She never really knew how he still managed to break Moriarty's criminal web apart and track her down at the same time. Why he does it is a much larger mystery to her.

Whilst she lies down on the bed at midnight, staring up at the ceiling with questions about one Sherlock Holmes in her mind,  she feels both panic and exhilaration at the sound of movement once more in the floor below her bedroom. Although, she isn't foolish enough to quickly assume that it would be Sherlock once more. She grabs the gun—the second one he gave her—from her bedside table.

As she turns the corner to her living room, she immediately goes into a stance and aims the gun on the intruder's head.

"Miss Adler," he greets with a raspy voice, cringing at the gun pointed at him.

"Mister Holmes," she greets, lowering her arms just as he lowers his own.

Their usual routine is for him to go to the kitchen where she will help him heal his new wounds and injuries. She even attended some short classes on first aid after his first visit. She still doesn't know what compelled her to do so but it is rather helpful in this case.

However, unlike the many times preceding tonight, Sherlock suddenly falls to his knees in front of her and leans back on his heels, swaying with his head falling as if he's bowing down—a defeated position—the exact way she was forcefully positioned to before her own execution. 

She quickly places the gun on a nearby table to kneel in front of him, checking him immediately. She sits back on her own heels, making her smaller, so she could look up at him better, pushing him up to keep him from falling.

He is shirtless, which probably explains the shivering, but he also seems to be sweating and breathing heavily as if he had just run without a stop for breath. She notices that his hair had grown longer, touching his shoulders, making her think about how long Sherlock  _always-clean-shaved_ Holmes was kept away from his own comfort.

"What happened?" she asks quietly, placing her hands on the sides of his face to pull it up so he could look at her in the eye. 

Sherlock feels her thumbs caress his cheeks absentmindedly and that she doesn't seem to have noticed her own actions. He closes his eyes at the touch—he's been aching for any act of _humane_  physical touch after what he's been through.

_ I certainly never felt anything LIKE that from Mycroft, _ he thinks bitterly, remembering how his brother had pulled on his hair and even nudged it away from him when he had made his presence known.

Sherlock tries not to feel deep hatred for Mycroft for not doing anything whilst they tortured him in front of him.

He shivers at the thought. 

"I... just came from _Serbia_ ," he whispers with a raspy voice. 

She freezes at that.

To his horror, he almost let his head fall and bury itself on her shoulders. 

All he wants is to feel her touch him more—the gentle touch from the hand of the dominatrix... Excluding her doctoring him and his occasional need for physical support from her, they never touched each other for touch's sake ever since that night before he had declared her own execution by exposing her with the passcode of her own phone.

He starts to wonder if her pulse would still elevate at his touch because the increasing beat of his own certainly does not come from his exhaustion nor recent physical activity. The room is dark too, so he is not certain whether her dilated pupils was caused by the darkness or  _him_.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," she replies, pulling him up gently and he tries not to wince.

"Not my back," he tells her.

"Alright," she says.

And so she only guides him by holding his clenched fist tightly with both of hers as he places most of his weight on his arm. His other hand grabs support from any surface nearest to him since he can tell that she's trying all she can to support him.

Irene sighs. The criminal network on Serbia was the last of the information she had given him and for good reason—it is, perhaps, one of the most dangerous parts of the web. From the description in the information she had encountered with Moriarty, it would remind her of that terrorist cell in Karachi.

She shivers at the thought.

The exact location of the Serbian side of Moriarty's web is just across the border of this city—where her house is located. Perhaps it's why her subconscious had chosen this exact area—just in case Sherlock's plan in dismantling the Serbian side does not go well—a place within running distance. 

"Are you followed?" she whispers as they slowly head towards her bathroom.

He shakes his head.

She immediately makes him sit on the toilet which has its lid closed. He sits sideways on it, and as she stands behind him, she realises that both of them can easily look at each other in the eye through the mirror on the wall.

"Sure?" she asks, looking at him straight in the eye.

He looks away, shame lining on his face. "All dead," he whispers grimly, a rough edge in his voice.

She doesn't need to ask how those people came to their end. It was all over his face.

Sighing, she starts to inspect his injuries.

Her jaws clench at the sight of his back, practically mangled from torture scars—not unlike her own, although hers are just white scars now whilst his are fresh and deep and bleeding, and are in dire need of her healing.

She knows how one can feel after such an emotionally-draining session. Although her whippings are  _definitely_ different from the kind of whipping both of them had received upon capture.

So, she lays a gentle touch on him—most likely a stark contrast of how he had been treated—as she starts healing him, noticing the fact that he had leaned towards the touch as if he had been deprived from it for so long. 

_They're both marked now_ , she thinks.

She sighs when she nears finishing, leaving the bathroom for a moment to give him a glass of water which he drank as if he hadn't drunk anything so  _pure_ in months. He probably didn't.

"You've been gone for five months," she whispers quietly as she cleans an affected area with an antiseptic He was usually only gone for a month or two.

She'd thought he wouldn't reply before he says, "You counted?"

She blinks once, twice. "It was routine," she finally replies.

"Yes, it was," he whispers back.

"I hope the information I gave you was useful... at least?" she asks, keeping her eyes locked on the wound, trying to sound nonchalant.

"It was."

"...Serbia was last on the list."

"Yes..."

Silence.

"I spent two months researching," he whispers. [1]

She looks up from his wounds to look at his face through the mirror. Sherlock twitches as he fidgets with his hands, his eyes going a hundred miles per hour—thinking. She decides to give him time.

 _Three months of torture, then,_ she thinks to herself. She's been tortured for a few days before she was rescued. She can't imagine how to endure torture for three months. [2]

"How did you escape?" she asks him.

"Mycroft was a distraction," he replies.

"He was there?" she asks in shock.

Sherlock snickers—the first non-negative emotion he had shown. "Pretended to be a Serbian soldier," he replies before whispering with his face darkening, "He watched me get beaten—only stopped it when I was about to get hit with the pipe."

Her eye twitches at the last part. She masks her anger with an impassive expression.

"I never really liked your brother."

He chuckles. "The Ice Man, you said."

"No, _Moriarty_ said."

A pause. Sherlock sighs. "I'm going back tomorrow night."

She expected as much. "How?" she asks.

"Mycroft."

"Here?"

"Yes." Sherlock sighs, his head falling down. "He doesn't know you're alive," Sherlock finally says.

"I know," she replies because she knows he would never give away her secret for no good reason. This is not one of them.

"I know you do," he replies.

"What's your excuse for having a house in Montenegro?" she asks him.

He chuckles. "I'll tell him someone owes me a favour."

Her lips purse at that. "And he'd believe it?"

"Probably not."

She hums. "Tell him you won it from a gamble. You know your card games, I heard," she says nonchalantly. [3]

His eyes look straight at hers. "How did you know about the Clarence House Cannibal?" he asks.

Her lips twitch upward for a moment. "I'm not the only one who kept track, Mister Holmes."

"I was careful."

"You were," she admits.  "Which organ did you nearly give her?" she asks instead.

"Kidney," he says, chuckling.

They stare at each other through the mirror before she shakes herself to look down at his back. "There," she says firmly, standing up straight and sighing. "Done."

She watches as Sherlock painfully stands up, wincing and grabbing on to the wall to steady himself. She doesn't offer her help because she knows he will be insulted if she dared ask.

Still, she stands by the doorway, opening it for him as a gesture of politeness rather than as an offer of help. 

As he walks out of the room, he slowly and gently brushes his hand on her arm, letting it glide downward to grab her by the wrist. By doing so, he can steady himself more as well as seek out the question he wants answered.

There it is. 

Elevated upon his touch.

He's not surprised. Her breath _hitched_ at his touch.

To steady both of them better as they walk towards her bedroom where he will be staying once more to heal before Mycroft arrives, she grabs on to the wrist of the hand clutching her wrist. She's not an idiot. She knows he's checking her pulse—which she tried and failed to keep subdued—and in turn, she is now checking his.

There it is.

Elevated upon her touch.

She's not surprised. Yet neither of them speak about it.

She guides him to sleep on her bed as she always did, making sure he doesn't disturb the gauzes and other bandages. He lowers himself and sighs when he finally lets himself be buried under her scent, staring deep into her eyes as she stares back at him after placing a blanket over him.

As her face hovers on top of his, he can't help but wish for her to move closer but she stays where she is. He wants to pull his hand up and grab her closer, but his arms are too weak to do so. He wants to tell her to stay but his lips stay frozen.

He may outwit his torturers with his words as they glare him down but he never fails to fall speechless at the unreadable gaze of the Woman.

"Rest," she whispers.

"I—"

"Hush now," she whispers, reminding him of all those years ago. He can't help but submit to her wishes.

* * *

GOLDNEY HALL ORANGERY  
BRISTOL UNIVERSITY  
at the present moment

He blinks, realising that he had not wasted more than two seconds of pausing.

Thinking of the Woman is always fast-paced.

She's a dominatrix. Her hands are strong and she definitely knows how to put people in their place in the most mind-boggling way possible.  But an excellent dominatrix also offers aftercare to equalise the harshness of the punishment—a form of balance against the severity of the previous act of domination.

Her gentleness had already been confirmed on the day they met. She was gentle with her words after she had hit him with her riding crop thrice—caressing him even with that long weapon of hers whilst he lay on the ground, drugged up.

The fact that she had entered his bedroom to bring his coat back was an indication of her interest already—that she had spent the time beside him, seeping into his mind and telling him her own deductions, kissing him on the cheek in the process.

He deduced, right then, that she had definitely used that drug more times than necessary, since she knew when he was on the bridge between full consciousness and drug-addled confusion. It was not a surprise that her text came at the time it did. 

She was near 221B when he came to wake. To check up on him, perhaps?

Intelligent. Beautiful. Talented. Deeply caring.

She definitely is.

**"She was bound to want a man with the same qualities,"** he says after, looking down in thought.  **"John's just so relieved he managed to snag her before she got her hands one."**  


Her head tilts at that as she looks at him calculatingly, her brows furrowing at his words—deeply confused with his admission. She looks up at him in question as he gazes at her in a way she cannot truly describe.

Does he think himself too little? 

_ No, that's not it, _she thinks.

Is he, perhaps, telling her that _he_ is someone who seeks a person of the same qualities as he is—insane and dangerous? Is he telling her that he is relieved that he managed to snag  _her_ before she got to find someone else? That she is his equal and he is lucky enough to find someone equally deranged as he is?

She doesn't know.

** "What advice can I give them as newlyweds?" ** Sherlock continues, bringing her back to reality.  **"John—always remember to show Mary how you feel."**

Sherlock made every effort not to look at her at the last part.

* * *

As Sherlock describes two cases as well as his journey in planning the wedding, she couldn't help but notice that he seems to be slightly distracted by her presence as well. His eyes would glide over hers once in a while, making him all the more determined to finish his speech—to get away from the torture of having to talk in a sea of people with her in it.

She knows he's nervous at the fact that he is in the wedding of his two best friends—nervous to be left alone.

It's why she's here in the first place, she reminds herself.

Still, as he describes their probable last case in a very long while, she couldn't help but detect him feeling which she can only describe as _forlorn._

He continues, **"I enjoyed that very rare privilege that not many Best Men can claim. I've slept with the bride _and_ groom. At the same time. On the night before their wedding."**

She smiles at the scene that played in her head, that last night, Sherlock and John had managed to crash where Mary was as they try to solve the case with the Mayfly Man.

In her head,  **John is asleep on his shoulder, and Mary is asleep on John's lap, while they are sort of scrunched together.** She joins everyone in the laughter at that.

She also tries not to laugh at the thought of Sherlock having intercourse with both John and Mary. Knowing him and his hesitance to anything sexual, the ridiculousness of the statement almost brought her giggling if she wasn't usually composed and icy.

 _He's not opposed when it comes to you,_ a voice in her head says and she quickly dismisses it.

**"Most people bond through day-to-day experience—the simple daily rituals of living. Shopping together. Eating together. Sharing a flat. Sharing a drink in the pub. Not John and me. Our lives have been peppered by mysteries, murders, kidnaps, every form of danger. But it hasn't just been a life. Thank you, John. It's been an adventure."**

Despite herself, she smiles as  **Sherlock offers his hand to John and they shake, and then that shake becomes a hug. Sherlock even looks like he might be welling up.**

When John sits and the applause dies, Sherlock finally raises his glass.  **"Ladies and gentlemen. If you'd like to raise your glasses please. I'd like to end... by proposing a toast. To..."**

And he pauses. As everyone stands confused, as well as John and Mary, she knew immediately that something else had transpired.

As John, Mary, and Sherlock all start muttering amongst themselves in a panic and realisation, she knew then that something is definitely wrong...  _especially_ when  **John and Mary jump up to their feet, clasp hands with Sherlock, and hug** , and then the newlyweds staring at Sherlock in horror before all three of them stare at their audience.

**"Ladies and gentlemen, not quite finished. I'd like to keep you all here a little longer. Hands up who likes John."**

**No one puts their hands up.**

**"We all do. Lovely chap. Can't say it enough times. Let's talk about how much we love him..." Sherlock pushes John back into his chair. "I mean I've barely scratched the surface. I've always admired his taste in... baggy cardigans... And he can cook. Wow. Does a great lasagne. And he's got a really nice singing voice. Bet you never knew that."**

As Sherlock rants about his best friend, Irene can hear the many amounts of buzzing from his phone. Her eyes glide over to the Head Table where she sees the newlyweds texting and looking at Sherlock in confusion.

 **"Hold on a moment,"** Sherlock replies, texting and smiling at everyone nonchalantly.

His eyes gaze at hers knowingly when she feels her phone vibrate. She blinks rapidly as he gives a small and subtle nod in her direction, and so she replies with a small nod of her own.

Nonchalantly, as to not show suspicion, she checks her own phone for the message. 

> _**HE'S HERE! THE MAYFLY MAN IS HERE. SOMEWHERE!! TRY TO STAY CALM** _

**"Oh my God!" John yells** at something in his phone just as **Mary screams when she reads it.**

The trio starts typing to themselves which she finds amusing since it is the very nature of her and Sherlock's relationship—texting.

Do they even have a relationship?

Definitely. It's not a normal one but they definitely do.

Her phone vibrates once more.  

> _Be wary of anyone._
> 
> _My phone's on vibrate._

And she knew he was seeking communication from her at that exact moment.

When she looks up, to her surprise, he eyes her warily, thinking heavily. She hides the small feeling of nervousness in the pit of her stomach—not because she is being scrutinised by Sherlock Holmes—but because he is looking at her with both concern and fear.

Is she to be murdered? 

> _Am I the target?_

She sees his brows furrow the moment he saw her text, immediately looking at her calculatingly.

**"Let's all play a game," Sherlock says. "Murder. Let's play murder... Imagine someone's going to get murdered at a wedding. Who exactly would you pick?"**

She watches as he goes a hundred miles an hour with a case. It reminds her of the time all those years ago, when they were in the office of one Mycroft Holmes.

How her world fell apart as Sherlock had shared his own deductions about her. How he had exposed her feelings for him as the truth.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't stop when he sets his mind on something.

 **"** **You wouldn't kill me 'cause you could find me any time. Just knock on the door of Baker Street. Boom. Single shot to the head. The Bride and Groom could be killed in any number of ways. Quick dose of poison on the honeymoon. Hijack room service."**

His eyes gaze over hers and she quickly understood the message. 

Planning a murder at a wedding is risky and difficult, why do it to someone if they can be killed anytime? 

Because the target is  _hard to target_ in the first place.

The target is difficult to find.

The target is unknown.

_The target could be her._

Did someone find out that she was alive? Had someone caught her? Had someone found her locations and made out the conclusion that she would be here? In public for the first time in years?

Her mind comes back when **Sherlock points at her**  directly.

 **"She flew from Alicante. Bomb on the plane,"** he says firmly, staring at her.

She understands immediately.

And she sighs at the confirmation that she is still safe, although she still glares at him at the reminder of her most vulnerable moment.

That 747 Jumbo Jet will never fail to haunt her.

Then again, her time with Moriarty had come to past and Sherlock had freed her dependency on an inanimate object and had even helped her gain a second chance at a life—a life away from being too _big_ and too  _noisy_ with the sharks in the sea of criminal activity.

He was there for her when she most needed it.

She thought, by having betrayed him, that he wouldn't show up at her execution. Her feelings for him was the main reason he had involved himself with her, and it was the same thing that made him detach himself.

It all worked out in the end, however. Her betrayal was foiled by her emotions, and it was her emotions that made him go back to her.

She was still able to save herself through Sherlock Holmes—excruciatingly painful for both of them, sure, but she still managed it.

As John and Sherlock finally come to the conclusion that someone is here to kill Major James Sholto and they had started to interrogate the staff, she comes to her senses.

She leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] In The Empty Hearse, Mycroft mentioned that Sherlock spent quite some time investigating Baron Maupertuis. In the books, it was mentioned that Holmes spent two months researching on him nonstop, neither eating nor sleeping, before finally going on his way to search for him.
> 
> [2] John posted about Irene on his blog around March. Assuming he posted it a hours after he told Sherlock that Irene was going to a "Witness Protection Scheme" in America, Irene would have been officially dead since January because "she was captured in a terrorist cell in Karachi TWO MONTHS AGO and beheaded." 
> 
> We all know Irene revealed herself alive on New Year's Eve, and that she went to 221B days or perhaps, hours, after revealing herself... which means it would have been days or one/two weeks since she was released in the world phone-less, and perhaps she was caught in Karachi and jailed for a few weeks before her execution and secret rescue.
> 
> [3] His Last Vow, Sherlock said he owned the place in 23 and 24 Leinster Gardens and that he "won it in a card game with the Clarence House Cannibal."


	3. The Harmony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FROM HERE, THE BOLDED PARTS ARE SCENES THAT CAME FROM THE ACTUAL EPISODES.

GOLDNEY HALL ORANGERY  
BRISTOL UNIVERSITY  
at the present moment

 **“But not at John's wedding!”** The key words that saved Major James Sholto. After the said man was sent to the hospital via ambulance, Sherlock and the newlyweds return to their confused guests.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the lack of one person from the whole crowd.

Irene Adler left.

Something drops at the pit of his stomach—he can only describe it as dread. It felt hollow to see that someone on his side in this part of the war had left him at the peak of the fire's eruption.

 _My side_ _?_ he thinks to himself, scoffing. He and Irene Adler were never on one side against another one.  _That_ would suggest that they had forged some form of relationship—some level of trust...

...and yet they  _did_ , didn't they?

Irene Adler was never his friend—not like John, Mary, Molly, or Greg. No. She was never his  _friend_... but why does he trust her as much as he trusts the others? If not, more? Before visiting her houses at his time away, why was he so sure she would help him? Why was he so sure that she would be there to heal him? She would never act in a sense of duty or obligation. There's no reason for her to help him. Why should she?

Even if she  _does_ owe him something, she's not the kind who would act to pay a debt. Besides, he was the one who ordered her death sentence after she betrayed him—making her vulnerable to Moriarty and his web. Genuinely, he doesn't really know which one of them was crueller to the other.

But why does he trust her?

“You okay?” Mary asks him as they sit back down with the others to resume the reception.

“Me? I'm fine,” he replies.

Mary doesn't reply. She knows he isn't… but she probably has no idea why.

Sherlock was surprised himself that he felt much more distracted without her than he did with her. True, she had distracted him from focusing on continuing with his speech but it was that very challenge of  _not_ being distracted by her that made him focus more on what needs to be done—It made it easier to bear his own feelings for his friends because he was too distracted to not be fazed by her presence.

He wanted to let her know that she doesn't have a hold on him anymore—not like before.

That challenge—this _game_ they're playing... It made him feel included—at one with another...

And now she's abandoned him in the middle of the battle.

Just as his best friends will now be abandoning him.

He sits there, forlorn, as he watches his best friends cut the cake, feed each other, laugh with their other friends, and share stories amongst other things. He watches as his other friends spend good time with someone else... whilst he is just sitting there like an idiot.

“Enjoying yourself?” he hears someone ask beside him.

Slowly, he turns to look at Janine, looking at him with a strange look in her eyes. Is that concern?

“I can barely contain myself,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head as he looks back at the happy Watsons once more—definitely uncomprehending in the face of the happy.

“Oh really? Because you're the only one, besides that other detective, who looks ready to get themselves drunk silly,” she replies, making him look at Lestrade who is definitely trying to get as much drinks as he can.

He immediately deduces that Lestrade's thinking about his own failed marriage and his lack of a partner—hence, the drinking. Sherlock ignores the small voice in his head that is trying to parallel him with the Detective Inspector.

“I'm not a drinker,” he tells her.

“Oh?” Janine asks. “Then what does the Great Sherlock Holmes do when he's feeling down?”

Sherlock looks at her in the eye once more. “I'm not _feeling down_ ,” he tells her.

“Really?” Janine asks with a small knowing look. 

“I'm not,” he insists calmly.

Because when he  _is_ feeling down, the best thing he could do: act like he isn't.

“Then why aren't you going around having fun?” she asks sceptically.

“Is that a requirement?” he asks.

“Not really,” Janine replies. “That's just how it usually is, right?”

Sherlock sighs. “I wouldn't know. Weddings aren't really my thing.”

Janine nods, finally believing him. “After that speech you gave? It's a bit difficult to think it isn't,” she says, turning to look at him. “No marriages in your future, then?”

Then it hit him.

 _Why on Earth would I—?_ he stops, shaking his head in confusion at the thoughts in his head. He couldn't quite believe his own mind at that moment. He has always thought that his line of thinking could always surprise him—that there are areas he has yet to unlock… but this?

This is quite... exposing.

Because the moment Janine asked about marriage... the moment he was asked whether he sees a marriage in his life... a marriage in  _his_ future... the first thing that popped in his mind was  _her_.

...and he hates it.

He hates that it has always been  _her_. She shouldn't be... and yet she  _is_.

Sherlock tries to fight his own brain for the series of memories popping out of his head: the way she looks, the way she talks, the way she walks, the way she sits, the way she reads, the way she sleeps,  _everything_...

Looking at John and Mary, and how harmonious they are with each other—knowing how the other thinks without the need of communication—how they just  _know_ , it brings him back to the person he is married to via alias; the person who has healed and broken him at the same time; the person who got to him; the one person who had been in his brain since the beginning of this whole event...

...to  _her_.

* * *

SWITZERLAND  
ZÜRICH  
just after Dubai

“This is mine, then?” she asks upon entering the two-storey white house. “The actual location of my alias's home?” she asks him as he slowly guides her to sit on the nearest armchair with his arm around her waist to support her.

“Yes,” he answers after letting her settle in, bringing in their luggage and opening the lamplight on the end-table near the door, showing a modern house with a few classic furniture—not unlike her old place at 44 Eaton Square Belgravia.

“How much does it cost?” she asks, turning to look at him.

He stares at her for a long moment before she sees him shake his head slightly, indicating that his house is definitely for  _her_.

“How?” she asks in amazement, shamelessly showing how much she is impressed.

“Someone owed me a favour and gave me a small house in case I needed one to stay,” he replies.

“And your brother wasn't aware that—”

“My brother doesn't know all of what I do. He may be the British Government but I am also the Greatest Detective in the world,” he responds a tad bit snappily at her because how  _dare_ she doubt him?

How dare she think that someone like  _Mycroft_ will always know about his whereabouts? How dare she think that he isn't capable of being discrete under the watchful eye of the British Government? _How_   _dare she doubt him?_

“It's not a crime to wonder how much you've orchestrated. Other than Moriarty's web, your brother is my immediate threat,” she comments, rubbing her wrists unconsciously which doesn't go unnoticed by one Sherlock Holmes—whose anger dissipates entirely.

“How are your wrists?” he asks, making her look down at her hands and untangling them.

“As fine as they could be at this point,” she replies.

Sherlock sighs. “Couch, now,” he says, not waiting for her to reply before already moving towards her to help her up.

“I can manage,” she declares, raising a hand to stop him.

He sighs, knowing that this is a losing argument before going to the kitchen without another word to get the first aid kit from one of the drawers in the counter. He has a feeling that she might need it all the time.

He goes back to see her slowly sitting down on the couch, looking at him the whole time with a strange look in her eye. He takes note of how dishevelled her hair is, the bags under her eyes, the slight shaking of her skinnier form which had lost one or two inches of her waistline.

He sighs, sitting down on the couch beside her and turning to face her completely.

“Come on,” he tells her quietly since she's still sitting down rather stiffly with her elbows on her knees and her hands clasped together, looking at him at the corner of her eye. “Miss Adler.”

She doesn't say anything in reply, oddly enough, but not surprisingly so as she finally turns sideways on the couch—making one of their knees touch each other.

Irene sighs as she presents both forearms towards him with her palms up, whilst Sherlock places a gentle hand underneath both forearms to support them as he slowly pulls her sleeves up to remove the bandages he had already placed there earlier.

Sherlock grimaces at the scars and bruises on her wrist—clearly indicating that she had been cuffed to the wall and probably had been cuffed with her arms above her for some time, as well as having been manhandled by people who are too strong and impolite to be holding a woman.

Irene, in turn, barely hisses as he starts to treat them better than he did a few hours before. He wraps her forearms and wrist with a bandage and he caught himself when he almost had the biggest desire to place his lips on them to reassure her of his presence in the healing process.

Why should he? He doesn't particularly care about her.

“Your other injuries,” he tells her.

“Yes?” she replies—confirming and addressing that she _does_ have other injuries but also telling him in a way that makes him look like it isn't his business nor any thing that he should care about.

“I have to treat them.”

“Why?”

“So they wouldn't be—”

“Why _you_?” she asks him quietly, tilting her head in question.

Sherlock licks his lips before sighing in exasperation. “Because I'm the only one with you right now and it's impossible for you to do this on your own.” 

Because Sherlock doesn't  _care_ if she has injuries. It would just be a rather big inconvenience that he took some time and a lot of effort to track her down, locate her, find her, fight several people to get to her, crash her execution, then kill everyone in the terrorist cell to save her—only for her to die from lack of care for her wounds. Yes, very logical and not at  _all emotional_.

“Right,” she replies.

Gently and gracefully despite her shaking body, she rises from the couch—surprising him—to stand directly in front of him, making him lean back from his position so he would look at her in the eyes better.

The small lamplight beside the couch gives her a small golden glow as she half-kneels down on the couch with one of his legs between hers—straddling him the same way she did the day they met.

“I—” Sherlock starts but she places a delicate finger on his lips.

Looking at him the entire time, she slowly unzips the baggy parka she had changed into whilst they were on the flight from Dubai to Switzerland. Neither of them take their eyes off the other even as he helps her remove the parka off her still shaking shoulders.

“You sure you don't want to—” he starts to ask, wondering how she still has the energy to stay in a position without collapsing in exhaustion after the ordeal she had had endured in the past week.

“Hush, now,” she whispers.

Irene looks down, taking the parka from his hands and placing it on the empty space beside him. Slowly, she lets her hands glide from his arms to his hands and guides them towards the top of the shirt he owns which she is currently wearing ever since they were on flight.

Sighing, Sherlock helps her unbutton the shirt from the top whilst her hands are busy unbuttoning from the bottom—their eyes still locked with each other. They both don't comment on how slowly they are both moving. She doesn't care that she is still in pain and he doesn't acknowledge that this isn't how people usually treat their patients.

Their hands touch when they reach the middle of her shirt. Irene places her hands on her side whilst Sherlock places his hands from the collar of the shirt and slowly removes it from her shoulders.

Both tell themselves that they are merely being cautious as to not make the injuries worse from any abrupt movements—perhaps the bandages had been soaked and are now stuck with the shirt; perhaps she has broken bones that neither of them were aware of; perhaps she has scars neither of them had seen since they were too busy being on the run. Definitely. _Definitely_ logical.

Her breathing changes when the shirt finally exposes her in front of him with half of the sleeves still stuck around her elbows. He doesn't take his eyes off of hers as he leans forward to help remove her shirt and manage not to disturb the new bandages on her forearms and wrists.

At first, they are silent, merely staring at each other in the eye as they stay in their position.

Unlike the first time they met, she is not mocking nor baffling him at her audacious move of being completely nude. Unlike the day they met, she is not undressed because she wants to throw him off and shock him by presenting an odd and unusual introduction. No.

She is completely exposed to him as she lets herself be seen with her vulnerabilities—to show her pain underneath the cold mask she placed upon her face.

Unlike the first time they met, he is not trying hard to compose himself because he was shocked at her boldness. Unlike the day they met, he is not staring at her to prove to her that he is not fazed by what is being presented to him or showing her he isn't flustered. No.

He is completely exposed to her as he lets himself take on the responsibility of her needs—to show his acceptance of her wholeness without her mask.

After a while, Sherlock finally lets go of her eyes to finally take care of the wounds on her torso, making sure to lay his gentle violinist hands on her bare skin—an aftercare from the emotionally and physically draining week she had had.

They keep silent as Sherlock takes care of the scars on her torso and the rather alarming cut on her side. She hisses every time he cleans a wound, grabbing a hold of his shoulder to keep herself from falling. He asked her once more whether she'd rather sit beside him but she refused, wanting to stay in the exact position they are in.

He immediately understood that she wanted to have some level of control—to be the one on the dominating position—to be above in a situation where she is most vulnerable as she is not only exposed physically but also emotionally and mentally.

Every part of her has been stripped away at this very moment and he has now taken the duty of having to heal her, and he will do everything in his power to do just that… and if letting her do this stubborn act will make her feel better, then so be it.

After he lets her know that he has finished with her frontal torso, without the need to speak, she stands up from her position on the couch before stepping forwards more to kneel down on the ground with her back facing his—a severely vulnerable position.

He blinks profusely as the scars and blood on her back glistens from the lamplight behind them, making him severely regret of being too merciful to her captors. He should have killed them slowly.

“Miss Adler?” he asks quietly, sighing when he sees her visibly flinch at the sudden voice in the room.

“Yes?” she asks with a hoarse voice, as if she is trying hard to keep her voice level.

“May you please move forward,” he tells her, making her turn her head to look at him over her shoulder.

Slowly, she walks on her knees, settling down by sitting on her heels. Sherlock, on the other hand, stands up from the couch to kneel behind her, sitting down on his heels as well, placing the first aid kit on the ground beside him. At the sound of his movement, Irene turns with her eyes widening that he has changed positions…

…so they are still equals.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks her calmly.

Irene turns away to look straight ahead, biting her lip before finally replying with a simple, “No.”

“All right,” he says and she immediately knows that he wants her to be as comfortable as possible. With a sigh, she removes her folded legs from under her before sitting down on the ground with her legs crossed.

Once more, they keep silent as Sherlock tends to the wounds on her back, making sure to be gentle as not to startle her, hoping that she was not touched in any other ways other than a punch and a vicious whip—or else, he will have to find ways to bring back the dead to kill those who dared touch her that way.

They don't talk even after he finished helping her. Neither of them move from their place on the ground, just staring at nothing as they both fall deep within their minds.

“I nearly died,” _I didn't know I'd still be alive,_ she wanted to say, finally breaking the silence and moving to turn around and face him by kneeling down and sitting on her heels—to face each other in the eye in the same position.

Sherlock, in turn, manages to control himself after seeing her slightly tearful eyes, staring at him with such dismay and distress that he can't help but have the urge to place his hands on her waist to support her in case she falls from emotional setbacks.

“Nearly,” _I wouldn't let that happen_ , he wanted to say, but he knows she understood because she lets out a small chuckle, placing her hands on his shoulder and closing her fist on his shirt, trying to compose herself and succeeding.

“Of course,” she whispers, wiping both eyes with one hand and straightening up better than she did a few moments ago.  _I know_ , she would have answered because she knows what he meant. She can't help but marvel over how a few words from him can actually make her feel better.

“Of course,” he whispers back, taking parts of her hair that had fallen on the tear-tracks on her face and gently placing them behind her ear.  _I know_ , he would have answered because he knows that she will always understands what he means… and he can't help but stay in constant shock at the fact that there is someone here who understands him more than anyone else in the world.

Because they are always in harmony.

* * *

MONTENEGRO  
BIJELO POLJE  
a few months ago

After merely an hour of being asleep, Sherlock wakes up despite his longing for a good night's rest after being deprived of it for so long.

_**Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?** _

He gasps at the sudden memories of his torturer repeating those sentences over and over and over.

“Mister Holmes?” he hears.

His head whips to the side to see  _her_ , sitting on the armchair by the window sill with her legs folded beneath her and a closed book in her hands.

“Are you here?” she asks him quietly.

Because she doesn't need to ask what happened. She doesn't need to ask what he was thinking of. She doesn't need to ask him to know that he was back in that place. She doesn't need to ask him if he was having a flashback... because she just  _knows_.

“I am,” he replies.

“Good,” she replies, leaning back on the armchair and turning her body to face the window.

As she slowly places the book on the window sill, her hand pauses on top of it as she grows still with the way she's positioned. Sherlock wonders why she would let herself stay still at a most definitely uncomfortable position.

That is, until, he hears her sigh. He watches as she slowly let her hand glide away from the book to turn around to face him—her movement measured as if he is a wild animal about to kill her.

 _Does she see me as such?_ he thinks to himself before immediately dismissing the idea. Who cares what she thinks anyway?

“How bad?” she asks instead.

No, she'd never ask if he was all right. She doesn't have to. They both know he isn't... and he doesn't have the energy to say anything but the truth.

“Very,” he replies.

With that, Sherlock observes the way she slowly ascend from her chair as if she was floating up above him. Her frame blocks the moonlight from the window, showing off more of her form as she slowly walks—no— _glides_ towards him with a grace he could not begin to describe.

Oftentimes, she was seen in close relation to Aphrodite as she encompasses herself with her femininity. She eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex—undaunted by the subject of sex and sexuality, and is the perfect living embodiment of sex itself. [1]

But right here, right now, at moments like these, she becomes Venus—the Roman version of Aphrodite. She is more austere, more nurturing... and dare he says it:  _caring_. She is still as beautiful and desirable as she is often seen but her movements are graced with a form of…  _tenderness_ in the way she looks at him. [1]

Slowly, she takes a hold of the blanket and pulls it to slip in.

Sherlock closes his eyes when he is met by that ever familiar scent of roses and vanilla as she scoots closer towards him, lying sideways to look at him straight in the eyes just as he turns to look at her in the same manner.

Her stormy yet calming eyes search his—for what, he doesn't know—and he finds himself searching hers for something his consciousness couldn't comprehend.

“You're shivering,” she whispers, their faces inches apart.

“Just an aftereffect,” he replies, just noticing his shaking body.

“I know. I had them,” she tells him. “I still do… sometimes.” 

He wonders what made her tell him such a vulnerable thing—to tell him something that they would usually keep from the other. Is she giving him a way to talk about his own feelings without the need for breaking out more of his vulnerabilities? To keep him dignified and away from shame's eyes?

Is she leaving herself vulnerable to keep his own hidden? Does she really care about him enough to do so?

He'll never know but it does leave him thinking how a strong mind like hers could still manage to go through such a distressing ordeal and manage to give the illusion that nothing is remotely wrong. How incredibly  _strong_ the Woman is.

“Did it decrease in intensity?”  _Will mine ever go away?_ he wanted to ask.

“A bit… It's becoming easier to handle. All I needed was some patience.”  _It won't... but eventually, you'll deal with it better than now,_ she wanted to reply.

They didn't have to say it, however, because they both understood.

“No more web?” Irene suddenly asks, anxiety etched on her face.

“No. No more web,” he confirms, making her nod slowly, looking up at him with an unreadable look in her eyes.

“Last time I'll be bandaging you up, I suppose?”

“Yeah,” he replies, surprised at himself for feeling both bitter and saddened by the fact that he won't be beaten up anymore since it won't give him a good enough excuse to come back to her every time he is feeling incredibly in need of comfort. “Perhaps,” he adds.  _I might still come back,_ he wanted to add.

“Perhaps,” she whispers back.  _This may not be the last time we see each other_ , she wanted to agree.

Subconsciously, Sherlock reaches out to her face to place a stray hair at the back of her ear, letting his hand glide on her shoulders to her forearms, just as Irene unknowingly closes her eyes and sighs at the contact, drinking in every physical contact she can have with him.

“Mister Holmes?” she asks and he hums in reply, retracting his hands away from her when he finally realised what he's done. “Is it the end of the world?”

They both hear the real question, however.  _Is it the very last night?_

“I hope not,” Sherlock breathes out.

“But still uncertain.”

“Yes.”

Slowly both of them reach out for the other. As Irene places a hand on the side of his face, letting her thumb caress his cheek, Sherlock closes his eyes at the contact, letting an arm wrap itself around her waist, slowly making her move closer which she does.

Sherlock manoeuvres them by gently letting her lie down on her back as he hovers on top of her, one of her legs between his. Their arms tangle with each other with hers looping around his so he could cradle her head with his hands, his thumbs resting just below the corners of her eyes. Her arms settle on the sides of his arms, careful not to touch any of his bandages.

Other than their hands, they never touch but as seconds and seconds go by, they close in with each other. Sherlock's weight start to drop on hers but they never dare touch each other more than they already have.

When they are both a centimetre away, their lips feeling each other's breaths, both of their eyes closing at the  _drumroll_ before the inevitable, they stop.

They listen to each other as they both take deep breaths, neither of them advancing towards the other nor letting their hands move from where they had stopped.

Sherlock looks down at her, taking himself deep into her eyes and wondering what made her be brought into this situation—being held in his arms—trusting him completely and opening herself up to him entirely. Her gaze wanders around his face, searching his face for answers to questions he is not sure of. 

Why is she looking at him as if she can't believe he is there when he himself cannot believe that she is here?

“Mister Holmes,” Irene starts breathlessly.

“Miss Adler,” he replies just as breathless.

“Why can't we?” she whispers.

“We can… but could we?”

“Such a simple act, Mister Holmes,” she whispers. “It's so  _easy_.”

“To others, maybe… but to us?”

“Why are we making simple things more difficult?”

“I don't know… I don't know…” he whispers, sighing as he looks down at her again, letting his eyes drift towards her lips. Oh how, he just wants to taste them, to let himself be conquered by her touch.

“We've been through so much—in different ways… and yet…”

And yet they are both scared of taking away the distance between their bodies—to finally give themselves away…

…but they can't—not when they both feel that this might be the last time they might hold each other. The touches they had given each other would be different than what they are accustomed to. It won't be fiery nor would it be erotic. It would be bitter—desperate… and that's not how either of them want to remember their last night holding each other.

…yet both of them are thinking the same thing.

“Please,” he hears her whisper under her breath.

Sherlock leans back to look at her in the eye better. She slowly opens her eyes to gaze up at him in an almost hungry and incredibly despairing look in her eye… and from the way her face changed, reacting to him, he knows that he is probably looking at her the same way.

“What are you—” he starts but stops himself.  _What are you begging for?_

“Don't,” she whispers.  _Don't make me say it._

“All right,” he replies.  _I won't._

“Do you?” she asks.  _Do you feel it, too? Do you know how this feels? Are you as miserable as I am?_

“Undoubtedly,” he replies.  _Yes, yes definitely._

“It's so easy,” she whispers.  _I just have to pull you down to me and you just have to let yourself fall on top of me. Just one movement. It's so easy._

“I know,” he replies.  _I know but you know why we're not doing so._

“I know you know,” she says, sighing.  _We're both cowards._

Because God forbid, they can read each other like no one else can.

* * *

GOLDNEY HALL ORANGERY  
BRISTOL UNIVERSITY  
at the present moment

“No, no marriages in the future,” Sherlock finally answers Janine, still staring at his two best friends, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.

No, he doesn't see himself in a wedding, wearing a suit and a golden ring on his left ring finger, standing beside the Woman in a white—beside  _a_ woman, not  _the_ … No.  _No_ , definitely not.

“Shame,” Janine replies, making him turn away from the Watsons to look back at her.

Sherlock blinks profusely because for a moment, he feels an incredible amount of surprise that the brunette beside him had changed faces from Janine's to  _hers_. Shaking his head slightly, he is met with the questioning look of Janine Hawkins.

“What does marriage prove in a relationship?” Sherlock asks her in curiosity, turning back at the audience in front of them, still marvelling over the now-married couple. “The ability to pay for such outlandish things? The fact that they have more friends than people think? That they can orchestrate such an elaborate event?”

“Marriage proves their love, I think,” Janine replies, smiling at the newly-weds.

“They don't need marriage for _that_ , do they?” Sherlock asks with a scoff, not knowing why he's even asking.

“Much more traditional _and_ official—puts them off the market forever.”

“It isn't eternal—marriage,” he points out.

“To the couple, it is.”

“How... boring,” he finally says.

“I think it's beautiful,” Janine replies, making Sherlock hum.

“How does a marriage differ from any other form of relationship besides the legal benefits?” he asks.

“It's just a traditional way of showing one's love, you know,” she answers. “That they are truly committing with the other—always and completely.”

“And a marriage proves that? Can't they just talk about it?” he asks. “Why is there a need for all this?” He gestures around.

“Taking a vow with each other is practically a marriage already, you know. Some people just want the whole ceremony to make their promise for each other public and more official,” Janine replies, making Sherlock look at her strangely.

 _Their promise for each other_ , he thinks to himself as Janine is called by some of their friends for a photograph and to mingle with them.

Sherlock, in turn, keeps refusing to be a part of such ordeals unless John and Mary themselves call him, not wanting to deal with any person around as his mind drifts back and forth with memories he never wanted to think about—because of the pain behind it.

He might have been tortured physically and psychologically. He might have been destroyed by Moriarty bit by bit, having his name deteriorate around the newspapers. He might have been traumatized with some of the things he had to force himself to do for the greater good…

…but nothing can compare with this irritable pain in his chest.

He can't help but notice how incredibly vulnerable he is at this event—the fact that he is now to be abandoned by his best friends; that he will go back to the world of being alone in his flat, solving crimes on his own for money or for a good high; that he has no one by his side whilst everyone does.

Despite being a massive distraction to him, he finds himself trying to search for the Woman amongst the sea of guests, hoping that she had not completely left the reception and has instead gone to do a short errand of some sorts before coming back to be there for him.

It still sits strangely in his mind—that she is there for him and not for the wedded couple: unlike everyone else in this whole room.

But is that not the truth? Has he not accepted that they have  _something_ together that even he cannot understand?

Is he now  _that_ desperate to see her again? Is this wedding actually making him  _consider_? No, no, definitely not… but it does bring him back to the memory of her… and he hates how his mind cannot fully function since she keeps popping out of every single room he tries to be in.

Making his mind up, he takes his phone from his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It's canon Sherlock knows about Mythology. He mentioned Janus, the god with two faces, in The Great Game, who is a part of the Roman Mythology. He also knows that Eurus is Greek, and is most likely familiar with the name because of Greek Mythology.
> 
> AN:
> 
> Sorry this took so long. I'm still adjusting with university and I got mind-blocked on the flow that I intended for this one… 
> 
> But today, I said, welp, I have to, at least, try, then after one sentence, everything came crashing down. This was supposed to be the last chapter but welp, I can't do that, can I?
> 
> The characters made their own story that I just have to write about. It's inevitable.


	4. The Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG HUHUHUHU AND I AM SO SORRY IT'S SHORT HUHUHU

GOLDNEY HALL ORANGERY  
BRISTOL UNIVERSITY  
at the present moment

Sherlock is absolutely mortified as his phone waits for the other phone at the end of the line to pick up. It's not that he didn't want to talk to  _her_ because of the sole reason that he'd be talking to  _her_. No, he just wants to speak to her about her whereabouts. Definitely. Isn't she just wasting the life he's given her by going in public?

 _Of course,_ he is not calling her to remove the distracting  _nagging_ in his head—the one that keeps telling and reminding him that he's just here, sitting alone at the High Table in the Reception with everyone else mingling in groups together.

Suddenly feeling as if his seat is on fire, Sherlock shoots up from his seat to walk outside of the orangery—to distract himself from his growing isolation within a crowd by lingering in the silence of the garden. 

It's less lonelier—to be alone in an empty space than to be alone in a lively crowd.

Betraying himself, Sherlock turns back around to look at the orangery behind him. The reception is still loud—still  _happy_. From outside, he can still see John and Mary with their friends, laughing and sharing a story or two.

He lets out a deep breath, turning the opposite direction to look up at the now darkening sky—the colours of blue, orange, purple, and pink casting a beautiful painting in the sky. How it mocks him.

With a sigh, he glances at his phone—the other end still waiting to be picked up—but he doesn't dare cancel the call.

Cancelling the call is just as exposing as actually taking it—more so, probably. By dialling, it will already give off the impression that he himself had been swayed by his own vulnerable emotions to search for her contact number (a number he had never used for a year or more) and make the decision to call.

If he cancels, it would mean that he is so weak to fall subject to his vulnerability—that the decision to press  _Dial_ came from a sudden spurt of emotions so strong that he was willing to lose this little battle. It would show that his mind and logic were not in control of the action—that his  _emotions_ had told him to call  _her_ of all people.

Worst of all, it would show that he is too much of a coward to actually  _speak to her_.

No, he lets his phone wait for her... because despite its vulnerable roots, he can still mask it. What he is masking, he will never truly understand, but either way, she will probably see through that... but it's better to let her know that he is never going to submit himself to the war despite just losing this small battle.

As the phone on the other end continue to ring, he starts to wonder whether she's taking her time to pick up the call precisely for the same reason as he is: to not lose the war. Irene Adler is a woman who holds her phone to the highest value, which means she always has it with her... Is she taking her time to let him know that she is not waiting for him to call? Is she taking her time to let him know that she does not revolve around him nor he should revolve around her?

Or is it a different matter entirely? Danger, perhaps?

Impossible. She's safe. The web is not after her anymore because he took care of that. She can hold her own against her former powerful clients because they had no idea that the phone was destroyed so they wouldn't dare attack her if they think she still has leverage over them upon learning of her survival. The British Government does not see her as a national threat anymore, having destroyed her phone. She's just like any other trespassing criminal.

She's not in trouble. Even if she is, he shouldn't care... right?

Before he questions himself more, she finally picks up and so he brings his phone to his ear. 

" _Mister Holmes?_ " That voice. It's been a while since he's heard it. It had been nine months since he came back from the dead, and it had been nine months since he saw her last. [1]

"Miss Adler," he greets.

A pause.

" _Why are you calling me?_ " she asks him quietly but without a hint of emotion in her voice.

He commends her for her firmness as well as her straightforwardness. She always knows how to keep him tongue-tied, but he won't let her have the satisfaction.

"Is it not allowed?" he asks her instead, not really knowing what else to say.

" _It is rather... unusual._ "

Uncharacteristic of him to call her is what she probably wanted to say. He doesn't blame her. His own body had betrayed him—something he really hates happening.

" _What's the reason you're calling me?_ " she corrects herself.

A longer pause.

"I wanted to know why you're out in the open," he finally tells her after nearly blurting out about his own loneliness, and his need for human communication and interaction.

His anxiety with going back to 221B Baker Street alone is nagging on him, eating himself and the rest of his composure away. As much as the others try to communicate with him, they still have no idea who he is. They have no idea on how to talk to him, and they have no idea of the battle that's going on within himself... except  _her_.

" _I was in disguise,_ " she answers him.

"I told you never to come here," he replies with a sigh, rubbing his temples. Though she had just gambled on her life, she was still a good enough distraction from the raging war between his many emotions. If confronting her about her decision to come here gives him a headache enough to forget about his sadness, then so be it.

" _No one can ever tell me what and what not to do,_ " she counters with her voice filled with firmness.

It was not the scolding nor teasing tone which he usually associates with her voice when she is in her icy rage. It was the kind of firmness he hears when she's trying to reason with herself instead of to him. It sounded as if she is convincing both of them of her statement—something she would have normally said three years ago.

So, why  _did_ she come here? Why  _did_ she show herself to him? Why  _did_ she gamble on her life for a stupid wedding?

"It's dangerous for you to be in London," he tells her instead.

" _How?_ " she asks.

How indeed? How  _can_ he answer her? There is no danger for her in London except the probable incarceration from the British Government but they themselves threw her to the wolves when she was stripped off her phone. Her phone was the threat, not her. So who? Who could be the one she poses a threat to?

 _You_ , a voice in the back of his head whispers. Sherlock shakes his head to relieve himself from the path which his thoughts are straying on.  _Don't be ridiculous_ , he thinks back to the other voice.

"You are still a criminal in the eyes of the Law," he reminds her instead since it's the only reason he has.

" _Irene Adler is dead in the eyes of the Law,_ " she counters flawlessly and without hesitation. Damn this woman.

"And coming here compromises the fact," he continues, trying to remove the frustration from his voice. Does she not see how dangerous she is? Does she not see what may fall upon her if she stayed here?

" _Unless I am caught,_ " her voice breaks his thoughts.

He sighs. Of course, she knows. "You're taking a dangerous risk, coming here."

" _The risk is as worthy as its return,_ " she comments. [2]

"And what return are you expecting?" he asks her just as unhesitatingly.

Silence. A beat.

" _I miss London,_ " she finally answers.

Missing London—something he felt in his two years away. Even though she is an American at birth [3], her home is London. Just like him, she had built her empire in London—her life grew in London. She's just as in love with London as he is. He doesn't blame the fact that she misses being here.

Sherlock himself was eager to finish off Moriarty's web—not just because ridding the world of that rotten organisation would have been what everyone needed, but also because he wanted to come back to London as quickly as possible again, to use his own name again—to be himself again.

He can only imagine what  _she's_ going through right now, being on the run for three and a half years now [4] and keeping her life hidden forever—to hide who she is for the rest of her life... and she misses London, the place where she should never be again. He sympathises entirely.

"I see," he replies gently, looking up at the darkening sky, not knowing what else to say. She's been making him do that lately: speechless.

Silence.

" _Mister Holmes?_ "

"Yes?"

" _Why are you calling me?_ "

"I told you—"

" _Yes, but shouldn't you be getting started on Doctor and Missus Watson's first dance?_ "

He blinks for a few moments. "How did you know?" he asks before he stops himself.

" _I was a part of the reception, Mister Holmes. I know the timetable... I'm actually a bit surprised how quiet your end of the line is. From what I remember, people should still be mingling and talking around about now._ "

Sherlock turns around from his spot to look back at the lively orangery—where people _are_ mingling and talking around. What a physical parallel to his emotions—complete silence and isolation from all the happy commotion. He truly is uncomprehending in the face of the happy.

"Where are you now?" he asks her suddenly, turning back around to face the peace of nature.

" _If I tell you, my hiding will be compromised._ "

"That's not what you were exhibiting earlier when you came here."

" _That's different._ "

"Different how?"

" _I'm not playing a game right now._ "

Oh, but she is, isn't she? Is this phone call not a game itself? Is this not a war? A battle? Aren't they both playing with fire? Both seduced by the warmth of its glow, nearing themselves to it until the moment they get burned. Moths to a flame, they are. This game is a flame that can never really be extinguished.

Perhaps Moriarty was right to hire her all those years ago. To  _burn_ him.

"Everything is a game to you," he tells her.

" _No, but sometimes it's easier to treat everything as such,_ " she answers.

"Wouldn't it be easier to just... do things as one wants to?"

" _A fist-fighter will always win in a match on a fighting ring against a chess player, just as a chess player will always win in a match on a board against a fist-fighter. It's a matter of where their areas of expertise are. If your opponent wants a match, you have to know your strengths and the opponent's weakness... then use that knowledge to win—to_ always _win._ "

"And what if the chess player is on a match against another chess player? Wouldn't the game prolong too much? If they were fighting for something and they needed a battlefield, wouldn't a chess board be too... _boring_ to use in a fight?"

" _Then the one who uses a fist first gets disqualified and gets automatically removed from the game._ "

"But that one had done what was needed to be done: to get the message across."

" _And what message is that?_ "

"That the game had been going on far too long and that there is no progress with the battle if they're just... sitting there, making slow moves."

" _And still, they lose._ "

"Why?"

" _Because the game was their strength... and the one who suddenly fought with a fist was driven by impatience—by_ emotions _instead of logic. For chess players, logic is their main tool—their main weapon. In a sword fight, you never want to throw away your sword and leave yourself vulnerable. No, you cannot force a chess player in a fighting ring._ "

Sherlock feels as if he was doused with cold water at the statement.  _Wisely said_ , he thinks.

Silence.

" _I'll never get an answer from you, will I?_ " she asks.

He pauses because he's not really sure which question she is talking about. 

 _Will you have dinner with me?_ she asked years before.  _Why are you helping me?_ she asked after her death.  _Why are you calling me?_ she asked a minute ago.  _I'll never get an answer from you, will I?_ she asks now.

Her inquiries are dangerous—too exposing if he either answers or not. His answers would show what kind of person he is. If he replies, he admits his stubbornness and his desperation. If he doesn't reply, he admits his speechlessness and his powerlessness. If he lies, then he admits his weaknesses and his cowardice. If he tells the truth, then he admits his vulnerabilities and his defeat.

If he explains, he will look like he's defending himself. If he doesn't, then he will look like he's guilty of something he doesn't know she's accusing him of. Every question is  _dangerous_ , and there's no doubt that he will lose, no matter what.

But which one is she referring to? Or is she referring to all of them? Will he ever answer her questions?

 _I'll never get an answer from you, will I?_ she asks him. What should he say?

"No, you won't," he replies, an admission of stubbornness, speechlessness, weaknesses, and vulnerabilities—but he also admits his unwillingness to back-down, his lack of need of explanations, and his refusal to subject to her despite what she's doing to him.

He hears her suck in a breath followed by a deep sigh. She wasn't expecting an answer, that much was obvious, and he knew she understood a lot by those three words.

" _Fair enough,_ " she replies.

Fair enough? What is fair enough? What does that mean? Was it fair to show so much with so little? Was it fair to show so little with so much? Was it fair that he is unwilling to back down to a game he had just subtly told her he wished to stop?

Was it fair enough that he wouldn't let himself fall subject to her? Was it fair to surprise her when she doesn't want to be surprised? Was it fair to never answer her with the questions she needed answered? What  _was_ fair enough for her?

He will never understand her. The Woman is the one person he understands too much and too little at the same time, and he doesn't know whether to yell at her or chuckle to himself with the fact.

" _Will you use the violin?_ " she asks, bringing him back to reality. " _To their first dance?_ "

"Of course," he replies, feeling his throat dry up.

" _A composition of your own?_ " she asks.

He tries to subtly clear his throat as he composes himself. "Obviously."

" _And you don't need practising,_ " she adds.

Is she inquiring whether how much he had spent his time perfecting a composition for his best friends?

"No," he admits before he starts to think too much.

It's dangerous to think too much. Over-thinking is just as much of a downfall as thinking too little. Moriarty made sure he understood that before he fell down the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

" _Right,_ " she replies.

Silence.

Had they been normal human beings, the silence would have been described as  _awkward_ by everyone else, but they were never normal, and their silences were never awkward. The silence is them trying to form the next strategy—a strategy to perform the next move.

The silence was always tense between them. It was always hard to move forward. It was hard to be in a battle where you have no idea what the opponent is doing, or what they must be thinking.

" _It's a good wedding gift,_ " she suddenly says. " _The composition._ "

Other people would think she's starting a small talk, but she was never one for small talk. Everything she says is a dagger—a chess move, and he must tread lightly unless he wants to see himself maimed and defeated.

"Why?" he asks.  _Why are you saying this?_ he wanted to ask.

" _I don't know,_ " she admits, " _but that's what they'll think._ "

"And you?" he asks quietly.

He could practically see her shrug. " _I'll admit it's an honourable gesture._ "

The first two notes of the lament he had written for her rings in the centre of his mind palace, begging to be played—to be acknowledged—to be exposed to the person it is a tribute to, but he pushes it down. She doesn't need to know that.

"It's just music," he replies nonchalantly, shrugging a shoulder before he realises that she doesn't really see him as of this moment.

" _From one performer to_ _another_ ," she starts," _I think it's safe to say that it is never 'just' music, Mister Holmes,_ " she finishes with an almost accusing tone.

The lament continues to flow in his head so he has to physically shake his head just to rid himself the haunting melody. 

"No," he agrees before sighing, "no, it's never just music..." Another sigh. "I better go."

A pause. " _Till the next contact, Mister Holmes._ "

"Miss Adler," he says before hanging up.

Sherlock doesn't move, choosing instead to look down at his phone, as if he could see her the longer he glares at it. Her last words still ringing in his ears.

* * *

ENGLAND, LONDON  
221B BAKER ST  
seven months ago

_Doodooding..._

The default notification alert of his iPhone did not prepare him for the text within it, instantly taking away his plans to dine out at Angelo's tonight.

> _From Unknown Number:_
> 
> _+36 4 221-7437_ [5]

He doesn't need anything else.

He replaces an old number with the texted one. Staring at it for a few moments, he deduces that she had moved to Hungary since he last saw her in Montenegro two months ago, judging from the fact that the country code of the number is a 36. It was dangerous for her to expose her whereabouts to him.

Sherlock looks up from the dreaded number to the streets of London outside his window. 

She's out there, somewhere, and he left her alone in the world for both their sakes. Should he feel guilty for leaving her vulnerable and out in the open on her own? No, he shouldn't. He knows she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. In fact, that's her very nature, isn't it?—that everything she does is to for herself, no matter what the cost.

So, giving him a means of communication, does that not ruin the very nature of who she is? Or was that a very  _her_ thing to do? She  _did_ text him that she was alive all those years ago. She  _did_ text him of the gift she had when she faked her death. She never shied from the fact that she was in contact with the detective that was hired to target her.

Still, wasn't she adamant when it comes to her locations? Why now? What changed now?

_Ahhh..._

Sherlock freezes, and from the reflection on the window, he can see his own eyes widening at the sound. He looks down at the phone in his hands, seeing a text for him. With a start, Sherlock looks around the thankfully empty flat before, with a heavy feeling in his gut, unlocking his phone to see what she had texted him.

Is she in trouble? Is she involved in a ransom? Does she need his powers of deduction for something she needs? Does she want to ask for a favour? 

> _Happy Birthday, Mr. Holmes_

His  _birthday_? Quickly going to the calendar in his phone, he sees that, indeed, it  _is_ the sixth of January _today_ —his  _birthday_.

How did she even know his birthday? No one else knows of his birthday except for his parents and, of course, Mycroft. His friends never bothered to ask him and he never bothered to inform them of it, not really seeing the point of telling them something so... meaningless. Is a birthday truly that significant to anyone? 

 _Of course, it does,_ a voice in his head whispers and he quickly shakes it off but it's quite persistent in his head.  _You care that they don't._

How she mocks him for reminding him of his loneliness. He wants to throw his phone away—to hear it smash on the wall. No one would hear him anyway since he's all alone inside the large flat. But he doesn't, because in his hands is his only contact to—

No, he shouldn't care. Why would he care?

_Ahhh..._

A heavy drop in the pit of his stomach. Why does her presence seem to give him that effect?

> _Till the next contact, Mr. Holmes_

Shaking his head, he gently puts his phone down once more on the desk beside the windows of the living room of his flat where he had taken the phone in the first place. 

With a sigh, he removes his coat once more to place it on the stand beside the door since he doesn't seem to find the appetite to get himself a small meal for his own birthday, which he thought was tomorrow. He shook his head, taking the dressing gown instead.

To his dismay, he finds that it is the  _blue_ one—the one she wore on the night that changed everything between them. It was the dressing gown she wore when she asked him that haunting question about dinner. As her voice rings in his head, he was more determined not to find himself eating dinner alone at Angelo's.

He shakes his thoughts once more. What is  _going on_ with him? Why is he so  _unstable_? Was it because of  _her_? Was it because of his torture in  _Serbia_? Was it because she mended him as she always did after every strand of the network got destroyed? Or was it something entirely different?

Why is he so  _vulnerable_?

No, he knows the answer to that. His expectations of home after two years of torture and famine got too high. Mycroft warned him two months ago and yet he didn't listen, insistent that he will be welcomed to London with open arms... that he would come back with everything the same.

Yet, everything in London was different, and what's worse is that he  _himself_ was now different.

John was right. War and sacrifice change people—no matter how headstrong they are. Everyone is human and everyone can never defy human nature. 

"Oh that tune," he hears behind him.

Sherlock visibly flinches at the sudden voice in the room. He turns around to see Mrs Hudson smiling at him from the doorway to the living room, holding a tray and slowly walking towards him. He looks down at his hands to find himself holding his violin and the bow, still positioned to play a high A.

"What was I playing?" Sherlock asks his landlady who places the tray on the desk beside him, just beside his phone.

"You don't know what you were—?"

"I was... thinking," he admits, not bothering to tell her that he wasn't even sure when he started playing the violin again.

"Oh..." Mrs Hudson replies before continuing, "Well, it's the one that goes—" she proceeds to hum a haunting melody that froze the blood in Sherlock's veins. "It really is a lovely tune, Sherlock. I missed hearing it."

" _Missed_ hearing it?" he asks, his voice dry but the landlady doesn't seem to notice.

"You always played it before you... erm... died," she says, blinking profusely and smiling sadly.

Sherlock doesn't need John to tell him that Mrs Hudson had been truly heart-broken at the news of his passing... and yet...

" _Always_ played it?" he asks.

Mrs Hudson nods, smiling at him widely before turning back to the kitchen. "You must have been deep in that funny old head of yours, now that I'm thinking about it. John and I always loved it when you played it in the past. It's usually the music we hear first thing in the morning."

Sherlock blanches at Mrs Hudson's words, continuing to stare at the now lightening sky of London as she descends to her own flat.

Music is such an exposing traitor to a composer. Yet his music's intentions still didn't give a clear meaning to the detective.

"It's just music," he whispers to himself, staring at his violin before positioning himself correctly and starting again, not bothering to sleep.

* * *

GOLDNEY HALL ORANGERY  
BRISTOL UNIVERSITY  
at the present moment

"It's just music," he whispers to himself, staring up at the now dark sky and wondering how long he had been standing there in his own silence whilst the orangery behind him continue to be filled with liveliness.

"Sherlock?" someone starts behind him as he slowly puts his phone back in his trouser's pocket, tightening his grip at the small gadget.

"Yes?" he asks, closing his eyes to breathe in the cold air.

It was a wonder he was still standing in the cold without his coat—another armour on top of his current battlefield armour... but right now, he seems to be more strengthened despite letting himself strip his own bravado by letting go of his happy awkward best man mask and back to his usual self—something even he cannot describe.

"The first dance is starting," was the reply.

Letting a heavy breath out, Sherlock opens his eyes again to turn around to see Lestrade giving him a small encouraging and somewhat sad smile. Lestrade moves to stand sideways, his hand raised towards him whilst his other hand gestures to the other, with his head slightly bowed in a 'come on, kid, let's go' stance.

It was the same position Lestrade had had when they first met—to gesture him away from the crime scene so they could talk formally in a nearby fish-and-chips shop. 

 _Those things will kill you_ , Lestrade told him before, indicating the cigarette in his hands at the time.

Sherlock tightens his hold on his phone that is currently in his hands at the moment, wondering whether this was the same thing that will kill him, but he dismisses the thought for its absurdity.

With a roll of his eyes, he walks towards the orangery with Lestrade briefly placing his hand on his shoulder—the same way he did when they met, and Sherlock prays to whoever it is out there that this wasn't some sick metaphor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Sherlock came back to life on November 3, 2013.  
> John and Mary got married on August 11, 2014.
> 
> [2] Literally what my professor in Finance is saying right now. Yes, I am writing this in my class—my MAJORS class. Yes, I'm a Finance major. Today is December 5. I wonder when I'll be posting this chapter lol.
> 
> [3] BBC's Irene Adler is canon to be an American at birth (it was in the script and deleted scene in A Scandal in Belgravia). In the books, she came from New Jersey.
> 
> [4] Irene was saved from Karachi around the second week of January 2011. John and Mary's wedding occurred on the 11th of August, 2014.
> 
> [5] LMAO I'm not from Hungary so idk what the numbers there are. I only know the country code. 221 doesn't need explaining. 7437 = SHER. I can't think of any other number I'm so sorry.


End file.
